[Adastra, Luxomoris. 02.00]

The boys stepped outside, and Ostin looked around, confused. This trip had really been a hot one: heated arguments with Stephanie, an evening at the sheriff's office, and nighttime rooftop forays from which Mark had nearly fallen. It seemed that even Braun himself couldn't believe that this whole fermi~la~comedy was finally over.

— Okay, shall we head home? — Mark suddenly snapped him out of his musings. — Come on, I'll give you a ride, — he added with a smirk, watching for a reaction.

— What? — Braun asked, snapping out of it.

— Yeah, I left my swallow here before our weekend, — Evans said with a sly squint and a relaxed tone.

— Mark, this is illegal! — the furious lawyer in Ostin instantly flared up, not even allowing the thought of breaking the smallest rule.

— Come on, it’s not my first sin! — Evans laughed and, waving his hand, added: — And who would dare to fine a car like that?! Ha-ha!

— Oh, — Ostin knew perfectly well that arguing with Mark was pointless. Besides, if he kept going, he’d hear about the greatness of this ‘drift cab’ a hundred times more — that’s what Braun’s boss called it.
 
No wonder. Mark was insanely proud of the 'swallow', as he called it. Yet in spirit, it resembled more a ‘Falcon’ — black as the very night, with thin golden accents on the body and matching centers on the wheels. Surprisingly, the Swallow had a matte paint finish that seemed to absorb all the cars around it.

[Was it real gold? Mark never talked about it, and Ostin preferred not to ask.]

  Ah... that leather interior, soaked with all the indecencies in Evans’s spirit, immediately caught the eye... No wonder: it was literally screaming red, and, surprisingly, constantly stayed clean to the point of exhaustion.

'Falkonis' — was the first and only automobile company the Evanses invested in. More precisely, Mark — through his father's money. He didn't just want to own this sports car but to have a direct connection to it.

Mark, like a magpie, pounced on everything shiny and flashy, but no car could endure such an owner for long. Or he them.

The only way for Mark to at least put down some roots was to build a custom car. But the guy liked fast solutions, and 'Falkonis' was better than anyone at that.

And investments were a matter of principle: his father always taught him to 'buy luxury not for the name, but for the profit'. Well, Mark, as a complex man, decided to take the words of the elder Evans too simply.

So that’s how he got his 'swallow' — a sports car-beast, which so and glittered, standing in the distance on the wrecker-platform... as if calling to himself.... One word — pure fantasy, not a car!

— Is it just me, or is that your car being towed away? — Ostin shouted, spotting the sports car on a flatbed tow truck, clearly going wherever it pleased. As if it was totally normal to snatch cars in the middle of the night, right under their owners’ noses.

— That can't be real! — Mark laughed at first, but then suddenly stopped short and cried out in shock: — Wait... what?! — then he rushed forward, bolting after the tow truck.

— Told you it was illegal! — Ostin shouted after him.

— What is he doing... — Braun mumbled in confusion, looking toward Mark, and already bracing himself for his friend to stir up bustle again.

And he was not mistaken. By some miracle, Mark managed to leap onto the tow truck’s platform, grabbed the metal edge, and nimbly climbed into the cabin of his 'Swallow' through the open roof. The circus man didn't even notice the fallen wallet.

— Hey, Ostin! The swallow is safe! — Mark shouted joyfully, not caring about Ostin's five-kopecks eyes. It was as if his actions were perfectly appropriate.

Instead, Evans calmly rummaged through the glove compartment of the car. Well, as was to be expected he found a bottle of champagne and a corkscrew in there.

— Look what I've got... — he whispered under his breath and, with sparkling eyes, began carefully uncorking the bottle.

— How did you... — Ostin mumbled to himself, fumbling for words for his disheartening verdict, running a hand across his forehead and lowering his gaze. Then his gaze fell on Mark again, who was already sipping champagne.

— Completely... crazy, — the verdict was clear.

— Hey, what are you doing?! — the driver yelled out of control, seeing the guest, frantically hitting the klaxon and flashing his emergency lights.

— I'm taking back what's mine! — Mark snapped back in the same furious tone of voice and punched the klaxon angrily, drowning out the driver's shouts.

— Get out immediately! — yhe driver almost howled, waving his hand.

— I won't! Give me back my ride! — Mark yelled, leaning out of the hatch and waving a bottle of champagne.

— You'll come with me to the station! — threatened ominously the driver, who clearly didn't like to stand on ceremony.

— Drive! — Mark shouted, settling comfortably in the seat and crossing one leg over the other. — Let’s see how legal this is, — he added sprawled in the chair with a lazy smirk.

— Absolutely! — the driver roared and sharply jerked the wheel, turning the tow truck around.

— Whoo! With the wind! — shouted the brown-haired man, sticking the bottle in the air, ostensibly celebrating. Probably his upcoming arrest.

At that moment, Rei came up to Ostin, holding a phone to his ear. Apparently, he had been unsuccessfully trying to call Mark until his eyes accidentally fell on his son's car standing on the tow truck platform, and then on Evans Jr. himself.

Rei froze with wide eyes, and then, briefly in shock, clenched his jaws and screamed:

— Mark, damn you! How the hell are you in there... you are?! — Rei, waving his index finger, almost jumped with anger. His whole face twisted with extreme outrage.

— Oh, Daddy, long time no see! — Mark leaned his elbow on the edge of the open window and theatrically raised his hand to his forehead, as if ‘saluting an old comrade’. — Listen, such a cool phone you have… what century did you pull it out of? This antique, ha-ha… — the guy said ironically, playing with his eyebrows.— How’s life? Not young and boring, huh?! Wanna drink? — Mark lifted the bottle up as if proposing a toast and burst out laughing.

— Where did you get that… — Rei paused, clenching the phone in his hand with such fury it seemed he was trying to crush its metal casing.

— I told you I don't drive drunk.... — said Mark with a serious look and added: — I get a ride.... ha-ha-ha! — he stuck out his tongue and, leaning his elbows on the edge of the open window, grinned with satisfaction.

— Jump out of there! — Rei shouted furiously, barely aware of what he was saying.

— What? — Ostin blurted out, startled by Ray's words, rubbing his eyes as if trying to wake up.

— And why are you staring at that idiot? — Rei snapped, turning sharply to Ostin. — You want him to trash your reputation too?! — he threw at him in an accusing tone.

— I don't even... I don't understand what's going on here... — Ostin muttered, absentmindedly rubbing his chin.

— Do you think I do? But we have to do something! — Rei threw angrily, his gaze darting around as Ostin struggled to piece things together in his head.

— But... what? — was all Braun could manage, his lips pressing together slightly as he looked up at the sky.

At that time Rei noticed his son's wallet on the road, quickly picked it up, and silently shoved it into his jacket pocket. He was too sharp to linger where he didn't need to.

— You'll call me when he's released ... - Ray said firmly, as if he had nothing to do with it. Then, with a snort, he added: — If they release him, — aftter that, he turned sharply and walked away, his steps thudding loudly.
 
Ostin did not look in his direction, only heard his footsteps. They were loud, like the marching stomp of military boots, drowning out everything around. Braun realized Rei wasn't coming back or even turning around. Furious, he clenched his fists and bit his lip until it bled. Deep down, he wished he could be as 'hardened', but then he would no longer be Ostin, but another puppet of ambition in power.

Ostin did not look after him, because he knew: if he did, he’d only see Rei’s back — moving farther and farther away... from morality, from the law, from love.

[Perispera, Luxomoris. Sheriff’s office, basement archives. 23:00]

The man rummaged through the archives materials in vain, hoping to find at least some clue. He sifted through old records, documents worn down by life itself. Everything smelled of dust and dampness, and many cases were cracked, torn, with ten-year-old spilled coffee stains on them. But the sheriff was not afraid of dirt — he was accustomed to it. He lived and worked in it, carrying on the family business, but never managing to truly continue it properly.

It seemed these digs lasted a good hour. And any diligent policeman would have had all the files long sorted by alphabet and years... However, the sheriff himself did not believe in their order, even though it was he the one who had arranged the cases in such a way as to keep them out of the hands of others. And still now he rechecked every case, pulling reins on order and his time, as if they were endless.

The locals said the sheriff was too harsh and demanding towards others, but if they had seen his fussing in the basement — they would have bitten the gag.

[Either you are cruel to yourself, or to the one you were supposed to become?]

— Don't understand why Evans' file isn't here? — muttered the sheriff irritably, tossing one document after another without caring how they fell onto the dirty floor. — Keeping all the records. This is a high-profile case! — shouted the sheriff, and the lamp flickered in response.

He cautiously directed his gaze at it and shouted to it as if talking: — A man is missing! — he jabbed a finger at it, as if he had found the culprit of the mud celebration. — Yes, eight years ago, but there must be some clue.... — the man continued, furiously rubbing his palms over his face with such force that his skin became covered with red spots.

Then he slowly dropped down onto his knees, sitting down heavily. The sheriff was at a loss, pondering where to dig next and whether it was even worth it.
 
And then from the very light, even so desperately dim, as if from a window of hope, a night moth quietly settled on his shoulder. He did not chase it away, though he felt its fragile touch and saw its almost transparent presence; he just watched it, as if he had found a sign in it:
— Who led this case? — the sheriff asked firmly, extending his rough finger. The moth flew onto him unconditionally, trusting.
— Cryptus? Seclusio? REX? Umbra? — he whispered, recalling old colleagues, not taking his eyes off the celestial creature and slightly squinting.
And then, froze in amazement. Suddenly, he blurted out:
— Could ... it was me? — after which he jumped up as if he had been shot.

— Where was I eight years ago?! — he shouted at the cold metal filing cabinet, stomping his foot nervously.

The familiar silence. No butterfly. No sound. No hope.

The sheriff shook his head, gathering his critical thinking and detective flair back together. The man must have realized that talking to space was more the work of a criminal than a dog of the law. True, he now doubted who he was. The meeting with Sylvester had split his life into before and after.

But what made the sheriff decide that that guy was a descendant of Evans? Because Moor would have believed his son, but he did not believe his words. Let's say. But why would the son lie to his father? For the same reason that the sheriff lies to himself when he tries to believe him.

— No. No. No... I'm alone in the basement. So it's not clean, — the man summarized, clutching his chin.

And just in time.

After a few seconds, the door above creaked treacherously. Goosebumps instantly ran over the sheriff’s body.

Someone was in the house. In his house. The one who shouldn’t have been here.

Without hesitation, the sheriff ran outside through the emergency exit. He looked through the window of the house and barely made out the silhouette of a man...

The silhouette bent down — the sheriff pulled out his rifle. But he didn't even move: he began removing his shoes, then wickedly stretched his neck and slowly straightened up, looking relaxedly out the window, unaware of anything.

And then his pupils dilated like orbits, and a faint whisper revealed a tiny truth in a fraction of a second:

— Father...

But the bullet was already racing straight toward him.